#thread: renata and reuven

[archxngxl]

In the world they used to know, Renata would've been a god damn saint.

Here she was, offering food, shelter and medical care to the man that could very well end her life. But staring into those eyes, reddened with tears and a silent acceptance, her heart ached. She ached for for the kindness humans once had for each other, for the normality of their previous lives. This man had a life, so did she and everyone else who survived this plague...if there was any.

Slowly, she lowered the pistol from the man's face. "If I get to keep my life, I would say that's pretty fair." She mumbled back a retort, tone still indicating she was angry. His own weapon was far away to reach, but Renata went over and grabbed it off the ground. The woman proceeded to throw the weapon a top her cabinet. One might think to hide it, given who she was with, but in his condition he wasn't reaching for anything soon.

The doctor returned to the man, crouching down to his shin. A hiss left her upon seeing the wound. Shock coursed through her as he explained the origin of the wound, and needless to say she was astonished. Back on her feet, Renata shook her head. "I'm surprised you're still walking..." The woman moved back up, now standing in line with the upper half of his body. Her pistol was still in her left hand, but she extended her dominant hand to him. "I can't properly check it with you on the ground like this so...we're gonna settle you on the couch, okay?"

     𝐒𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 human condition. So primitive in animalia, and yet, logic is prevailing, just as prominently as self-preservation. There is this resignation to the end, or what Reuven has accepted as his end, and he wishes for it to be so. His acceptance is not conjured without a melancholy foundation beneath it. And so, this stranger, she shows him mercy, and Reuven—he wants to be angry at her. He wants to pick up the barrel of carbine and place its lip upon his forehead, and gather up her hands in his, and situate them, shaking, where trigger lies. He is so tired. He is so, so tired.

     Tired enough to do nothing but allow the sobs to wrack his chest. Like thunderstorm upon night, it rains torrentially down, and he makes some noise akin to wounded animal. Some noise that had been crafted some weeks ago, when his last baby was laid down for permanent rest, and it was just now exiting his chest. He could have bellowed out the pain from the furthest depths of his chest, if he were not dwindling of energy. And that pain, it spoke to him whispers of contempt, and of distrust, and reasoning against the situation he was in. Why would this stranger take care of him and feed him? For nothing in return? And why would he believe her? This world had long devolved into something sinister and unhabitable; there was no kindness anymore. No generosity. And so quick was his own vile survivalism called to action; the hazy thought of being able to kill her while she looked at his leg flashed through him. She would be unsuspecting. He could do it suddenly, as cat strikes prey. Hands around throat. Grip digging into jugulars, until her consciousness flicked off, and then he could go upstairs and rest in that bed, in peace.

     It was not as though he hadn't done similar in the past few years. He'd certainly killed just for the peace of mind of not being stalked or targeted. But did he have to? But did he have to?

     The man's dark gaze, puffy and reddened with slowing tears, it settled into her's and he waited. Waited for her to do something. To take her chance. To make the decision for him—if she killed him first, then he wouldn't have to kill her.

     But no violence did come. And the moment passed, and his leg ached, and he croaked out, "Sounds like an uneven deal to me." Not exactly a rejection, but an acknowledgment, that she was not winning under those conditions. Did he really have the leverage here to say no, though? When was the last time he'd eaten? Properly eaten? He couldn't even remember. And that wound on his leg, though he'd cauterized its raging infection, it still festered and weeped and was healing so fitfully, he would not be surprised to wake up one morning to its necrosis. No. No, he did not have the option here to say no to medical care, nor to food. If she killed him in the process... well, he had already accepted it, hadn't he?

     His acceptance didn't come in the form of a yes, or a nod, but in the hiking of his knee up, to rest foot upon the floor, and allow the alleged doctor, a better look. "It got sliced to the bone a few weeks ago. Then infected... so I burned it." The words left his lips stoic in their baritone. As if he felt nothing over it at all.

[archxngxl]

Adrenaline shot through her like never before. Her body moved in a speed that was foreign but welcome, though her muscles ached at the sudden stretch. The gunshot spiked painfully in her ears, but none pierced her. Renata did not know how she gained the upper hand, until she was over the man with her pistol still pointed at him. Before her lay the image of a man starved and tired. In her years in the medical field, small details told huge stories. Sometimes, she could tell by the eyes alone what ailed someone.

What she did not expect, was laughing. The sound bounced off the walls like the bullets did before. Renata heard it through the sound of her own beating heart, hands shaking in front of herself. Somehow, it made her heart break.

She swallowed the lump formed in her throat. "Shut up." She commanded. Her hands started to shake more. "Those are my husband's clothes your wearing...how dare you come into my home and take them!?" Renata wanted him to care, to beg for her forgiveness and to give them all back. Their pristine condition was already ruined, but at least she still had them.

Renata's throat closed in on itself, a sob threatened to tear through. Her eyes glossed, her bottom lip wobbled. The smell of mint was suffocating her, the locket on her felt like a boulder dragging her down. The pistol remained where it was, chamber still full.

Renata knew she did not have the heart to pull the trigger, even if this man tried to kill her in her own home. Bleeding heart; the term materialized in her mind. Perhaps that was her curse.

Her brown eyes shifted down, something catching her eye.

A wound. A very bad looking wound. While she could not see much, since the material of the shorts covered it, a educated guess was made. The doctor in her surfaced, her mind already thinking of various ways to treat the wound. "You must've been really hungry...and cold..." She struggled to control her own voice. "I'll make you a deal. You can eat as much as you want...if you let me take a look at your leg." The terms were set, all laid out for him to choose. "But if you try and hurt me, I'll kill you...deal?"

     𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓 of his heart. Then—shattering. A million tiny shards, exploding off the point of contact between bullet and ceramic, and Reuven is diving in the opposite direction, and he is so tired, so fundamentally and quintessentially exhausted, that when the homeowner comes upon him, his reflexes are too slow. The woman's charge is met with the unfocused gaze of man teetering ruin; combine his starvation and grief alone and it was a miracle he was standing upright. Add on everything else and it's really no surprise then, that his forefinger pulls back on trigger and the bullet that sends misses her.

     His vision narrows into tunnel, and what little adrenaline can be conjured by his deprived body is now sent full force through his veins. He meets her, chest to chest, barricading her with the length of his carbine, trying to push her off.

     But she is fed.

     And he is not.

     And, all at once, his tank runs empty. It is as though he has been running for days, and only now, staring into the mouth of predator does he stumble over his feet. What a cruel joke. What a cruel world.

     It makes him laugh. Suddenly, and surely he must look like some mad man, because she gains the upper hand over him and something strikes him—it is acceptance. Acceptance of his own death, before her weapon ever graces his flesh. His laughter rumbles through him hoarse and strained and tired, and then it's mixing with some unstoppable surge forth of saltwater. It is darting from his glossy-eyed gaze. It is sinking down into his wild and greying beard. And he is thinking of his baby girl, and of the dirt mound he dug for her to rest in. And suddenly he's letting go.

     He lets go of the carbine. He stops fighting back, and then he croaks out something pleading; something resigning:

     "Just do it. Just fucking do it."

[archxngxl]

Renata listened to the notes of this man's voice. Rough, deep. She could not discern anything from it. Her heels dug into the old wood, so much so she was sure she would break right through. Her busted knuckles ached as her grip in the knife tightened. Skin tore apart slowly, revealing dry, bloody crevices. "Doesn't matter. This is my property and you're trespassing." She called out from her position. If she was correct, there was about a hallway between her and him. Ample space to shoot with her pistol, but wood offered weak protection against the bullets that might follow. Bullshit. She thought, as the man proclaimed his intention to leave.

Sun light moved over the wall ever so slowly. Golden orange sprayed over the white walls. When the darkness draped over them, it would harder for Renata to see him. The dark carried that suffocating presence, rendering it's victims powerless in the absence of light. "Who are you?" The dark haired woman questioned, but the odds of her getting an answer were slim.

The scent hit her like a semi truck. Mint. She could recognize that scent anywhere, even if she were blindfolded. Renata closed her eyes, trying her best not to react to it. It was her husband's cologne. Well, her fiancée to be more correct. They never got the chance to officially tie the knot, but the couple had long since started to call each other 'husband' and 'wife'. A memory materialized in her mind. Alejandro, getting ready for the day, would spray a generous amount of it on himself. Whenever he wrapped his arms around Renata, she buried her nose into it. It was a cold, minty freshness.

Something clicked just then. This stranger used that cologne. He raided her home, and helped himself to anything he found. Even her husband's things. A deep feeling within her stomach brewed. How dare he? Her throat closed up, eyes teared in frustration, and her heart continued the rapid, threatening beat it took on before. She'd had enough. Renata moved quickly. She let out a singular shot, aiming for a vase on top of the kitchen book shelf. A loud crack echoed through the house. Renata took the opportunity, letting the sound of crashing glass provide some cover, and charged towards the man.

Was she at a disadvantage, upon seeing the man's weapon? Yes. But she would not go down without a fight.

   𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆;   a burnt umber orb,  lowering behind the deepening horizon.  The evil which reigns will begin its ensemble soon.  A chorus of croaking, and clicking.   A dance, twitching, to its own symphony, until interrupted by the sound of its prey—its living predecessor—and then:  violence.

   Reuven hears the call of this homeowner's voice like some muffled song;   His blood pressure is rioting against veins.  Pupils have widened on their own accord, for he is ready to sacrifice anything, to keep this loot of nourishment.  It is the first bit of calories he's encountered in at least a week.  The edible vegetation did seem to dwindle out the farther one got from dirt and spuds.   So did the insects,  of whom burrowed their bodies into soil and crevice to evade his lunchtime pursuits.   No, he would do anything to finish this grand feast.

   The buttstock of his carbine lifts,  in hoisting,  over his back and into the nook of his shoulder,  where the man lifts barrel to the center of his vision.   He sees,  deadpan,  like tiger to deer,  searching.   A moment passes, and then he speaks to the woman again.   "Doesn't have your name on it,"   he calls back,  in as non-threatening a tone as he can muster.   "Don't want no trouble.   'L just grab my things,  and I'll be on my way."   His forefinger rests in waiting on trigger, and footsteps fall silent beneath his weight as he takes measured steps to the adjacent wall,   where his back meets the paint, and waits for her voice again.   Where was she?   His senses attune into hearing, to gauge where the other survivor stands.   The decision to kill her is so immediate, because he does not believe in humanity anymore.   He only believes in this.   The hot cascade of shower.   The bountiful food on the counter.   Water droplets fall forward from his dark curls, upon chapped and lacerated lips.   His inhales are calm;  purposeful. Show yourself,  he thinks.   An arm,  a leg.